“Madam, I love him. Could I do other than this? Look how he has chose me—so all unworthy, for a love so great as I think never was its like. Indeed I can scarce believe it, though told in your gracious presence, did not my heart know it true. What my Lord Duke says I say also. Only less dear to me than he is your Grace and my kind Lady Fanny. Madam, in my short life I have seen so many bad women that my heart clings naturally to the good ones. I can say no more—” her voice broke there.
“And ’twas for this love you refused my Lord Baltimore?”
“Not wholly, Madam. I could not love him.”
“His rank, his riches did not tempt you?”
“No, Madam, since they carried the man with them. They are well enough otherwise.”
“And since you refuse my Lord Baltimore and cannot have the Duke, what will you do?”
“I think to teach singing, Madam. I love my art.”
There was silence—Bolton regarding Diana with a tenderness inexpressible. He looked up then at his friend as though to say—“You see?”
“I see,” says she, replying to his look, and continued with composure.
“Were I to say to you, child, that the circumstances of your lover’s life are so extraordinary, so pitiful as ordinary codes and morals scarce meet them, and were I to add to this that if a good woman sheltered him in her heart and could restore somewhat of the happiness he deserves, I, for one, would never forsake her, what would your answer be then?”